Mah Pisces booty spaces out onto th' unHamppons of th' South Sho'e. Ha'fway
o’er Long Islan', thet is. Jest a piss further East than th' o'ange line on
th' tourist map showin' yo'’ve wan'ered fum urban t'rural, ah reckon. Not
quite far inough t'ovahtake Westhamppon whar th' snooty betch gals ostracize
etch other fo' warin' last years thong san'als. Right hyar, this hyar locale,
this hyar lan' of infinite mini-sto'age an' quick meals, of corncrete
interseckshuns whar eastern sophisticates let off their summer houn'dogs at
season's ind, cuss it all t' tarnation. "A backwater?" yo' ax. ah say,
"Travel nevah no further than this hyar line, as fo'evah hyar yo' kin avoid
th' noto'ious traffic of th' congested highway."
Mah neighbo'hood is made up of wawkin' class, a we'fare class, an' a small
group of varmints wif no class. Th' avahage literacy is two junerashuns sho't
of a noospaper an' two fingers higher than th' slip of a lottery ticket. Fo'
ev'ry house of wo'ship thar is a rowdy bar, fif'y-fif'y. As menny mo'e yard
sales wifin a san'-cast of th' volunteer fire stashun, the dawgoned-est
prosperous social club in th' area.
Rumo' is thet aliens, navigatin' by th' fo'k of th' islan', a unyversal sign
indicatin' a vacashun pareedise, does it hyar all th' time. They fust got
hyar thousan's of years ago af'er th' ice was gone. They had been wan'erin'
fo' centuries, junerashun af'er junerashun, travelin' imponnerable light
distances, planet t'planet. When they arrived on th' dry lan' thet divided
into two fo'ks at its easternmost ind like a two-haided goldfish, they were
as far as they wanted t'go.
Our appeal, fo' some tourists, is thet on th' way south on th' boulevard thet
runs straight t'th' betch yo' kin turn off an' viset nothin'. It is a lot
easier than lickin' th' behind of a South South Car'linan toad, cuss it all
t' tarnation. Three hours later yo' reckanize yo' haf an upstairs vacancy. A
sho't visit, a legal, an' tempo'ary, lobotomah of th' senses. Th' unspeakable
gwine down on th' inedible.
Jemmah Yardley once lived at th' end of th' main drag, Disjoint Rd, cuss it
all t' tarnation., though nobody impo'tant seems t'know.
Th' flood of unHamppons tourists is not natcherly wan'erin' toward th'
ovahgrown ind of th' road t'see th' old brown house thet nobody lives in an'
th' govment has thrett uped t'shet it down fo' visito' deficit. Then a bunch
of socially cornscious neighbo's, struck by th' economic advantages of
histo'ic tourism, put up dinky li'l markers, painted arrows out on th'
highway at th' main co'ner. Th' signage suggestin' not only thet thar be a
deli down this hyar way whar yo' kin purchase a cheap six-pack, but a
pokeweed choked path toward whar th' obscure Signer of th' Declareeshun once
dwelt.
This hyar refuge amid sho'e oaks is th' mosquito marsh whar th' splenetic
Federalist harbo'ed his experiments in th' nascent science of etymological
warfare. Makin' fo' all junerashuns tharaf'er a fine reason fo' th'
thin-blooded intelleckual crest, fearin' th' ravages of yeller fevah an'
sundry other communicables, t'keep shif'in' eastward on their seasonal
migrashun fum th' simmerin' blister of urbanity.
Mr. Yardley’s inseck legacy has corntributed mightily t'th' lack of a junetic
memo'y in th' livin' memo'y of this hyar nether zone. But th' common sense of
survival is wifin even th' pore itinerant who flees th' city an' resemblin' a
bird turd fum th' sky, mo'e than a meteo'ic jewel, offen a lost soul drops by
karmic fate among our unlikely mockery.
So, as in all thin's postmodern, on account o' th' encephalitis scare of ‘98,
th' local pols haf fo'ged a community group. Their misshun is t'fill in th'
irrigashun ditches as part of th' nooly revised anti-skeeter-breeder program,
dawgone it. This hyar much-needed ackshun has redooced th' Saturday mo'nin'
buzz an' hovah of unmarked spray coppers. Th' populashun of Mockin'birds --
lissen closely... is slowly reboun'in'. Eifer thet o' we all got a bad case
of tenitus an' need t'purchase mo'e citronella to'ches.
and so forth...
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