Redneck Tale - Naughty Shorts by Hennessee Andrews

Message from
Vicki:
    In the last five years I’ve been a
bridesmaid eight times. Eight! Always the bridesmaid and never the
bride. Pretty pathetic, considering I’m nearing thirty. My mother
believes I’m becoming a spinster, and I already have two
cats.
    It isn’t because I don’t get out there
and date. I do! All the time. There’s something about me that
doesn’t convey the message of a forever kind of girl. I can’t say
that I’m the type of woman someone would want to take home to Mom
either. No, I’m too outspoken and opinionated. On the flip side, I
do get my fair share of one-night stands, which in reality, is a
really good thing for me.
    All in all, I think I unconsciously
sabotage relationships before they can get started. I have no
desire to cook, clean, or become a man’s mother. I love men, but I
love them in my bed, and when they’re done, I want them to
leave.
    I’ve met all kinds of men over the
years. The lonely. The too good to be true. The clingy. The
overbearing. The jerks. The psychos. The list just goes on and on.
Each date I accept is like picking up the dice at a craps table.
I’m gambling. Secretly, I don’t want to roll the dice and win.
Sure, winning once is great, but then life tends to happen, and
I’ve seen it hundreds of times. The fabulous guy, the last of a
dying breed with a great job, insurance. Those dreams and hopes for
the future keep women wound up into a state of euphoria. Then they
land the “great guy” and set out on the journey to their happily
ever after.
    Ick. At first the relationship is
fantastic. The couple gets engaged, and oh geesh, the wedding
plans! The big day comes, life is just fucking fabulous. A
honeymoon that lasts anywhere from six months to a year plays out.
The bride is tickled pink. Then life happens…
    A few years later they wake up and
wonder what in the hell happened. Instead of waking up next to Mr.
Charming, romance-their-socks-off, they wake up to the asshole, the
cheater, the liar, the gambler, the wife beater, the… you see where
I’m going here. I’ve witnessed it too many times. Out of the eight
weddings I’ve been in, two seem to be working out, and by working
out, I mean they’re sticking it out. The other six have become a
nightmare. Each and every type I mentioned are currently married,
separated, or in the process of divorce. Call me a pessimist, but
the odds aren’t in my favor.
    And here I am. I just got off the
phone with my mother. A cousin down in Arkansas is getting married
in two weeks and one of her bridesmaids just eloped and ran off to
California. Sammy, my cousin that I haven’t been around since we
were nine, is in desperate need of a replacement. As it would seem,
there aren’t a lot of candidates she’ll consider. Given that my
mother is the helper of the family, she volunteered me.
    I’m not happy about it. In fact, I’m
downright pissed off. I have a job, a life. Well, I have a job, a
great job, and I love it. Taking off to be a bridesmaid for the
ninth time isn’t something I want to do. I have an advertising
spread due in a little over a week, and the thought of attending
one more wedding and boring reception is bothering me. I’ve
attended extremely religious ceremonies and didn’t so much as get a
drink for my services. There have been the fairy tale weddings with
doves being released as a sign of the couple’s love, yet the DJ at
the reception sucked so bad I ended up chugging a bottle of
champagne to dull my misery. And then there have been the regular,
no frills affairs, which equaled no fun at all.
    Nevertheless, I can’t say no to a
bride in need. Add to it the fact Sammy is family, and I’ve become
the sucker. Plus, I can’t say no to my mother. Pathetic. The good
news, courtesy of my life giver, is that there will be a bluegrass
band, banjos and all! Dinner will be a feast of roasted hog,
properly smoked in the ground, of course, and a potluck of sides
provided by the guests. My mother