SCARLETTE

I met Scarlette in the frozen food department of the Piggly Wiggly; and, after thirty minutes of being seduced, by her wit, charm, and beauty, I barely noticed the humongous, hairy mole over her upper lip. She was everything I'd ever wanted in a woman--the rare combination of beauty, intellect, and breasts requiring a 38-D cup. I asked her out.
Dining at my favorite restaurant, "Earl's Eatery", we began to explore one another's past. Scarlette had recently gotten a divorce prompted by the discovery, after coming home early from work one afternoon, that her husband, Winslow Tew, had an inordinate and unnatural fondness for woodchucks.
Winslow swore to Scarlette that the woodchuck meant nothing to him. Scarlette, devastated, departed. All of Tew’s attempts at reconciliation failed. Spiraling into a fit of depression, Winslow made a half-hearted attempt to take his life by watching a 72-hour marathon of televised fishing. Plagued by thoughts of suicide, still, he made a second attempt by staring at a Cubist painting by Picasso until he started mumbling the words to the Canadian national anthem, vehemently demanding a meeting with The Price Is Right host, Bob Barker.
There was a quiet dignity about Scarlette that could not be masked by her go-go boots, hot pants and Led Zeppelin T-shirt. Though Philippine, she had an awe-inspiring command of the English language, albeit her conversation was often peppered with phrases like: "Dis mackeral don't smell right" or "Dat waiter looks queer.”
There was a mutual attraction between us that could only be described as mutual. A chance meeting in a Piggly Wiggly had blossomed into a passion-filled, sexually-charged romance. Our love knew no bounds. Things, however, would soon change. A twist of fate would alter our lives forever --- or at least until Tuesday.
Scarlette, on the fourth night of our relationship, met a banjo player, Seymour Melnick, at a tent revival on the outskirts of town. They carried on a torrid secret love affair behind my back for fifteen minutes in the back seat of his Oldsmobile. Distraught, but determined to move on with my life, I relocated to Lizard Lick, North Carolina and wrote a book on the culinary arts entitled: One Hundred Ways To Cook Bald Eagle.
After much reflection on the tristful turnabout of events in my relationship with Scarlette, I've reached the conclusion that, if there is a moral to my story, it would have to be: Always accompany your wife to a tent revival.