Taking The 'Hands-On' Approach A Leeetle Bit Too Far

Hi, come on in! I'm about to start up Infidel Story Hour. So why don't you grab yourself a food storage bean bag chair.....NO, not that one! That one has the last of our potato pearls in it and I don't want the buttery perfection ruined by tainted butt. Come take this one with the dry bean soup mix stuffed inside. Dry bean soup mix is the main reason we fear a sudden apocalyptic attack-don't nobody wants to eat that to survive. Today I'm reaching way back into the annals of Infidel Family History to bring you a rousing story of Familial Traditions.......
My once flame-haired and eternally flame-tempered maternal grandmother was once a runner-up in the Miss Indiana pageant. I think she had high hopes for my mother following in her footsteps as she entered her in several beauty contests where my mom relied on her years of classical piano training to carry her through the talent portion of the competition. Dreams were dashed during one contest, though when stage fright set in and she lost her place while playing 'Maria' from West Side Story. My poor beleaguered mom just kept nervously pounding out the same chorus over and over again........"Maria, Maria, Maria, I know a girl named Maria" until one of the judges mercifully stepped in to put her out of her misery. I guess being tall and skinny with blond hair and blue eyes will only take you so far in a pageant.

Like pack animals using an innate sixth sense to sniff out weakness, my two uncles knew that this calamitous event really bothered my mom. So, they laid in wait for the perfect opportunity to torture her.......

And then, as the whole family sat in the living room, gathered around the television set watching an episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents, my mom's brothers realized they just struck gold! The shows theme revolved around a pianist who gets his hands chopped off for some reason and every night his severed hands come back to haunt and terrorize him. It freaked my mom out completely as nightmares tormented her slumber for weeks following.

Always ones to capitalize on the misfortune of their older sister, my uncles set their dastardly plan into motion by filling up a pair of latex cleaning gloves with water and freezing it. That night, they crept into my mom's darkened bedroom and placed the frozen gloves on either side of her head--counting on the fact that she's a notoriously light sleeper.

The terror-filled shrieks filled the house as she woke up thrashing about and fighting with the ice-cold, disembodied hands. My uncles, still hovering outside her door, collapsed in laughter.

This prank became a favorite for my uncles and a yearly Halloween tradition. My poor mom still gets the shakes when she hears any songs about hands. The Beatles 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand?' No. Forget about it. I feel sorry for any boys who ever tried to get 'handsy' with her. But at least she doesn't run screaming from the room when people mention the Hands Across America event anymore. That's progress. Just don't ever make any sudden "Jazz Hand" movements towards her, and you'll get along with my mom just fine.

*This is my entry into Wynne's Literary Mutations Halloween Contest!*