Yesterday birds fell from the sky in Texas and New York City reeked of gas. New York's problem was explained easily enough, but only after city officials pulled several erroneous excuses out of their asses (employees on the 30th story of a Midtown office building can't smell a Greenwich Village gas leak, guys). New York has a dirty neighbor: New Jersey. Sometimes Jersey gets a little stinky. Stinky enough to stop train service.
This story reminded me of another tale, one that involves my only living relative in N.J.: Aunt Susan (name changed to protect the seat I reserved in Heaven, just in case). Aunt Susan is a nun. As a child, she was so desperate to become a nun that she ran away from home at age 14. Most kids dream of running to the circus. My relative dreamed of running to perpetual boredom and depression. Mature for age 14, don't you think?
Aunt Susan is girthy, with a taste for scotch and a voice like a cat in heat. Her cheeks look like rotting marshmallow and she's never seen without her blue habit, but her strength is something fierce when she wants to smash a wet kiss into the middle of your forehead. Imagine two alcoholic cats, both female and horny, eaten alive by a fat Muslim woman, but undigested. They're always screeching and farting booze-stench into her esophagus. Oh, and she wears a full chador. That's my Aunt Susan, except Catholic instead of Muslim (and possibly some other minor differences).
Aunt Susan was the principal of a Catholic school in New Jersey. This had its perks when I was a kid. Like the three wise men of her hokey mythology, she would visit bearing gifts -- instead of gold, myrrh, and frankencense, she brought number two pencils, Swingline staplers, and math workbooks. A movie once, too, something Christian called McGee & Me that taught me everything I know about lying.
You're probably wondering why New Jersey's smelliness reminded me of Aunt Susan. It goes deeper than her home state. Once, at a crowded family gathering, God forgot about Aunt Susan. The Almighty left her trapped on the toilet. She could not raise her cratered butt cheeks from the smooth white porcelain.
Most old people know enough to yell, "Help! I've fallen and I can't get up!" A C. Everett Koop commercial taught that trick long ago. But Aunt Susan couldn't yell that, because she hadn't fallen -- she was sitting. And Catholics, like their 1st Imam, George Washington, cannot tell lies.
But Aunt Susan, through grunts and groans and hot, moaning cats, made her predicament known to all bystanders. Unfortunately, Nunny McNun had locked the door -- yeah, everyone wants to snag a peek, babe -- and the rescue team's efforts were blocked.
Eventually, my uncle was able to unlock the door using a clothes hanger. He did this on the condition that he wouldn't be asked to perform the extraction himself. He wasn't. A pal who Aunt Susan brought from New Jersey was able to lift her from the throne, and the day was saved.
In my family history, this event was recorded as Nunflush, and has spawned several screen adaptations and fictional sequels.