Hi Ya'll. This here's Luleen Wallerstein. I'm hijacking this here column today, while my personal friend and acquaintance, Lucy, takes a break.
I met her last summer at Vic's Biker Bar over yonder in Miss'ssippi. She came in for breakfast one mornin'. Breakfast in a saloon sounds odder than pig snout pie, I know, unless you understand that every night at Vic's is ladies' night. He keeps the place real clean b'cause of it. You know how women do; they'll pee in a parking lot between two parked cars, dodgin' headlights, before they'll go in a place that might have a little muck.
Due to the cleanliness, Vic maximized his assets by serving breakfast in the a.m.
The mornin' Miss Lucy came in I was waitin' tables and we got to talkin' 'bout this and that. I told her how I left Arkansas and come over to Miss'ssippi 'cause of a broken heart. I coulda' rowed myself 'cross the state line in a canoe I'd cried so hard.
She noticed I'd been blubberin' over the eggs even on that mornin' and asked me to bring the hot sauce that done that. I said it ain't no pepper sauce, it's that dang Bill, again. He wrote a book with more words in it than the New York City subway station, and not one of them was Luleen.
He told all about him and Paula, him and Jennifer, and him and his so-called demons, but not one thang about little 'ole Luleen. This time he didn't just break my heart, he ripped it out of my dress and threw it at the grill of an eighteen wheeler grindin' down the interstate.
When I called Mama to tell her, she said everyone in Aingonanywer, Arkansas was buzzin' 'bout it like a hive o' bees. Mama always held that that boy was worse than a boil on yer trigger finger.
She said Ida May Boogernaught bought two o' those danged books to put on the front seat of her car. Ida May's what you might call a "big little woman" at 4'5" and 305 lbs. Them books have enough hot air to lift her to see over the steering wheel.
Back in the day, anyone would'a thought he loved me if they saw us down at the Roper 'n' Ridem motor court. Lemmy Roper and Al Ridem, the proprietors, treated us like royalty, always providin' the presidential suite. They would smile real nice like at Bill and tell him "boy, you is goin' places." I always considered it a sign.
One day he did go someplace, but he didn't take me. He told me not to call him anymore on his cellular phone. Said people were startin' to talk and he needed to keep his profile low. I think his wife wanted him to help her move to that white house he always talked about.
Or it rubbed him the wrong way when I told him his secret servants, standing outside our motel door, would need to find their own girls. Heck, they thought I couldn't see them talking into their shoulders 'bout how good lookin' I was.
Anyways, I hear them New York City doctors finally diagnosed him with a bad heart. I doubt they can fix it neither, n'less they go out and git him a whole new one at the dollar store.
To make a long story short, Miss Lucy took a likin' to me and asked if I'd want to tell my side of the story sometime. And, well, here I am, at the apex of my glory.