It’s duck season, yes, but there aren’t enough ducks out there to justify not changing back into your street clothes once in a while.
Or at least that was The Observer’s reaction to the Cabot Star Herald’s announcement of the marriage of Richard Dwight Stell to Ashley Pederson, whom we believe to be a woman with a sense of humor.
In the style of all great wedding reporting, the nuptial garb was described right down to the label. But that label wasn’t Vera Wang. “The groom wore Real Tree camo overalls and a John Deere hat,” the Star-Herald said.
The bride carried out the decorative theme, wearing camo flip flops under a strapless light green gown and a camo ribbon “running through her hair.” Even the officiant, Mayor Stubby Stumbaugh, was decked out in his hunting gear for the joyous occasion.
The happy couple — and they look very happy in their photograph in the Star Herald — threw a “country fish fry” after exchanging their vows and then took off for the Bass Pro Shop in Missouri for their honeymoon.
It has come to the attention of The Observer that Johnny Cash’s birthplace was Kingsland, not Dyess. Renee Davison informs us that Kingsland is between Rison and Fordyce. That’s right, Cash was born in Kingsland, but tell it to Dyess, where he went to school.
The Observer was also reminded that that another famous Arkansan, Dizzy Dean, muddied the birthplace waters himself by claiming, at separate times, to have been born in Arkansas, Oklahoma, Mississippi and Missouri. (The consensus is that he was born in Lucas, Ark., in Logan County.) Dean muddied name waters as well. His name was Jay Hanna Dean. All those birthplaces must have made him Dizzy.
Someday, people will wonder — was the Man from Hope really from Hot Springs? Or perhaps they will repeat to themselves, “Little Rock — the first town Gov. Bill Clinton called home”?
Clinton was once Blythe, of course, Billy Blythe. Lots of Blythes lived up in Lucas, too, its web history page says. But no boys named Sue, as far as The Observer knows.
The Observer had the unfortunate need to drive on Interstate 430 to North Little Rock at rush hour. We passed so many collisions along the way we felt we were in a scene from Godard’s “Le Week End,” minus the fois gras. Rear-ended cars in twos and threes and, along the bridge, five. A big truck behind a sedan, a sedan behind a regular truck. We watched our back all the way across the bridge.
What’s their hurry? Possibly, they’d gotten on I-430 from bumper to bumper I-630 at rush hour and had forgotten to pack a meal.
A medical show broadcast Sunday on the radio made The Observer newly aware of this interesting fact: The shot in the behind is becoming a thing of the past. American behinds are getting too big for the shots to penetrate.
We’d just been thinking about big behinds, as it happens. We’ve seen, just in the past month, more than our share of intimate backside areas. Everywhere, it seems, working men are bending over without suitable coverage. We’ve seen bigger cracks than the Liberty Bell’s. If one had it in mind to give these men shots, it would be easily accomplished, though, it turns out, not very effective.
These behind-baring men have one thing going for them: They don’t mean to offend. The young guys who wear their pants below their boxers, while not revealing hairy butts, betray their spit-in-your-eye attitude toward the world.
Gentlemen, lift the seat. Of your pants. Please.