I had to discipline the little Parveys today. They were making fun of the neighbor boy, Martin, because his parents couldn’t afford to buy him tickets for Britney Spears. I told my little rugrats about the Good Samaritan and all that crap about “do on to others.” Then, just to drive the point home, I told them the story about little Sally Dinkledorf.
Little sixteen-year-old Sally was just over five feet tall. Her parents were ex-Hells Angels and her body was covered with tattoos. And she smoked. Man, oh man, did she smoke. Six, seven, nine packs of Lucky Strikes a day. While all her classmates were watching Creed and Stereophonics videos on MTV, she could be found sitting out on her back stoop, suckin’ down those coffin nails.
Of course, all the kids made fun of little Sally. They used to laugh at the way she’d hack and cough as she walked down Main Street to buy her smokes every day. I remember that one time I was at the ticket outlet, picking up my tickets for Pat Boone and The Juliana Theory, when I saw the neighborhood kids following little Sally through town and taunting her with lines like; “Cigarettes cause cancer” and “You should really get some help” and “Have you considered hypnosis?” Children can be so cruel.
Then one day the blood-sucking pigs came to town. Led by Count Oinkula, the most prestigious porker ever to propagate a pack of pot-bellies, they swooped down upon our little burg. They’d lie in wait outside the ticket outlet, and when anyone went in to buy tickets for, say Ronan Keating, Jay Farrar or Dixie Dregs, the pigs would pounce upon them, bite them on their necks and convert them to the ways of the unpork. Yes, it looked like the beginning of the end for our community.
But little Sally wasn’t afraid. Wheezing and hacking, she grabbed the Prince of Swine by his little pug nose, and with the evil one’s chompers of doom just inches from her neck, she coughed up half a lung, lit another smoke, and then plunged a wooden shish kabob stake right through his wicked little heart. We were saved!
The children don’t laugh at little Sally Dinkledorf any more. That chain-smoking, tattooed little girl is a local hero, a legend. In fact, there’s a statue dedicated to her at the town square, and we pass by that statue each and every day as we make our way to the ticket outlet to buy seats for shows like Barry Manilow, Action Figure Party and Supertramp. But you won’t see the name “Sally Dinkledorf” engraved in the inscription on the base of the statue, nor will you find her name in any history book.
Why? Because you probably know her better as Huffy, the Hampire Slayer.
And now you know the rest of the story. This is Howl Parvey… Good day!