Then there is the great celebration they had in my backyard one night resulting in a new religious icon and a visit from the local sheriff:

It became a joyous evening of the three of them and the Reg boys getting drunk on "Iron City" and 'Shine and roasting a hog out in my backyard alongside the garage. Of course, after a while, Paw started lighting up farts as is his wont, and that's what I now have come to believe is one of those things best left unexplained.

The neighbors began to complain about 11 o'clock or so after one of Paw's flamers had ignited the hedge on his property. That would have passed as the boys got it put out pretty quick, being full of Iron City and all, but when a major rip set fire to his wife's bird feeder....well, that was it. I tried to calm the guy down and assured him nothing like that would happen again. He went back into his house dragging the charred remains of the feeder and a roasted squirrel that had been looting it when Paw let fly with that fiery thundersprecht.

Anyway, I got them situated again and since my house has aluminum siding, my only request was that they point Paw towards the wall. I figured a good hosing would clean off the worst of it in the morning. I went inside and the revelry continued at a somewhat decreased decibel level with only the occasional flash lighting the window of my den. Around 2 AM the boys came in for a final pee call and of course they couldn't just go. I heard either Reg or Reg in my pantry and before I could get up there, the whole crew was playing sink the Cheerios in my downstairs bathroom. Karen, my wife who is usually blessed with some patience for them, came downstairs at this point and threw a fit since our kids watch everything "The Boys" do and we were spending a fortune in Cheerios. After a severe ass-reaming from Karen, I herded them back outside and suggested they get some sleep around the smouldering pig carcass. I went back in and after cleaning and disinfecting the bathroom and taking a shower, I again settled down in front of the TV to watch a half-hour Infomercial on how I could make thousands a week by selling quinnine pills through Direct Mail Order and running tiny little ads.

They were just getting to the good part with the testimonials and all when there was this giant blast from the backyard and the night sky lit up like a Buddhist monk. There was a moment of silence and then I heard Cletus yell, "HOH-LEE SHEEEEIT!!!" Well, there wasn't anyway I could avoid it, so I went out through the garage into the backyard and there they stood, the whole damn bunch of them, except for Buford who was throwing up Iron City and pork fat down his bib overalls over by the smoking hedge. They were staring at an image that Paw's last fart had scorched onto the siding with their mouths hanging open. I stepped back and looked and my first thought was, "Well this ain't gonna' clean off too good and Karen will be really pissed." But when I started to say something Cletus stopped me and I noticed that the look on all of their faces was almost reverent. Paw was standing with his mouth agape and the others seemed awestruck as well, so I looked again.

Cletus turned to me and said, "Doncha seez it Catspaw? Its rite thar!!! Paw done farted Jerry Falwell out his ass!!!" Well, I kinda' had to admit, it DID resemble him in the flickering light of the burning porker on the spit, but I was too much in fear of what the morning would bring from Karen to say anymore than tell them to get some sleep. Problem was, they didn't. I went back inside, the group outside quieted down, and I nodded off before I could get the 800 number for the "501 All-Time Polka Greats" by Myron Kopetz and the Nose Flute Kings.

What I didn't know was that the group had gone off and gotten Pastor Sharphorn, his wife, the Ladies Auxillary, and the Deacons, from the "Church of Evangelical Brethren and Tongue Talking Mohunkers" and they arrived for a look-see about sun-up. When I woke up to the commotion outside it was about 6 AM I guess. The sight that confronted me was reasonably bizarre. At least 150 people were assembled in the backyard and I could see more coming down the alley. A small altar had been erected out of the remains of my stockade fence which was now on the ground, the crowd overflowing into my neighbor's backyard and trampling his stupid-ass garden gnomes into powder....it was the only high spot of the day. Those kneeling at the altar would place small plastic Madonnas and Jesus statuary at the foot of the garage wall and say a little prayer and move on to the donation box that Cletus was guarding. It was then that I noticed that everyone donating more than $25.00 was getting a "Holy Relic" to commemorate their visit to this newest religious icon which had previously only sheltered my vehicles and assorted cans of dried out wax and rubbing compound.

There, perched upon a throne-like affair that I noticed had been assembled from our porch furniture, was Paw. As each person gave his donation, Buford would cut a small piece from Paw's overalls and hand it to them. For $50. they got a piece from the seat, and for $500. a snippet from the flap of his longjohns. It was a kind of poor man's "Shroud of Turin" I guess. Business must have been good since Paw was missing one entire leg of his bibs and he was about bareassed already. I was dumbfounded and I was just considering how to set this up as an infomercial and start booking tours when the County Sheriff showed up and ran everybody off. Then he proceeded to fine me for 19 different offenses and gave me a summons to appear in court for destruction of my neighbors property.

I was able to head off Cletus and the money, which covered almost all of the fines and my neighbor's friggin' gnomes, but it cost another 50 bucks to get rid of the Falwell image. Now if I could just get shed of the real one for the same price.......................Anyway, I haven't been able to figure out how that happened and I suppose it is one of those things best left unexplained. I've always thought that Falwell was talking out his ass, but I never figured you could blow him out your ass as well, but Paw's a really religious ol' coot so I guess you just never know. Really, I think Cletus had it right with his first two words, "Holy Shit!!"

The Sheriff suggested that they "get out of the county" at least for awhile and they left this morning for a festival in either Alabama or Mississippi where they had a contract for the porta-potty business they have been trying to run called "Crappers on Casters." I'm off now to have a chat with the SPCA about the squirrel.

Spaw