Say what you will about angels, but I wouldn’t trust one any farther than I could throw one. Assuming I could catch one for long enough to throw it again, that is. And I’d love to throw one, given half a chance.
Say what you will about the damn dirty things, but I know the ugly truth about them. The only reason we’re here or anywhere, you and me – humans, I mean – is because the angels needed to be entertained and God can’t sing. We’re like a big glitzy television show for them. If you look up at the sky when it’s raining, sometimes you can even catch a glimpse of the windows they watch us through.
I oughta know; after all, I’m virtually the last scion of one of the angels’ favorite families. At various points in my life, I have been hit in the head with popcorn they’ve thrown and I’ve heard them shouting, “No! Don’t go into the basement alone!” and once – just once – was asked to re-enact a scene from my life because a key Seraph had missed it first go-around.
Friends, it’s all about the clumsiness. Clumsiness has cemented my family’s reputation as a longtime angel favorite. Even on the divine level, nothing kills ‘em like a pratfall. It’s the very definition of unadulterated hilarity, and no Archangel can help but bust a gut at the old slipping-on-a-banana-peel gag when properly executed.
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Adri Anna Oopsy. I come from a long line of fundamentally unbalanced, accident-prone people. Prime fodder for the Attention Deficit Disordered Angels.
Back in the day, my family was amongst the very earliest of families to set out for New World. We would have been the first to get here, too, had my erstwhile ancestor, Warfield, Earl of Oopsy, not inadvertently pulled the cork on the bottom of the ship (who knew there was one?), leading to a long, drawn-out scene of panic and screaming and ultimately pointless treading of water.
I’m even related to the legendary pirate, Captain Trippin Fall. In his day, Capt’n Fall was feared throughout the seven seas, but misfortune seemed to haunt him and his crew more than logic would allow. Ultimately, he was left with two wooden legs, two hook hands, two leather eye patches, and barnacles for teeth.
And they didn’t call him “Ole Squid-for-Brains” for nothing.
He was quite the ladies’ man, I hear. Plus, his life remains the angels’ all-time viewing favorite. After the 1732 incident with the sharks, the angels even successfully lobbied God to give Capt’n Fall two additional seasons on earth, just for the entertainment value.
And don’t even get me started on the poor Warwickshire Oopsy-Daisies, who lacked the foresight to close down their firework factory while there was still time.
Fast forward to the 21st Century now. Come on, leave Captain Trippin Fall back there, where he belongs. Get caught up to today, and here I am. Can you see me?
As you may or may not be aware, back in April of this year, I had a bit of an accident myself. I was involved in a spectacular one-vehicle accident during which I totaled out a car. You could hear the gallery of angels applauding, whistling, hollering, stomping their feathery angel feet.
Fortunately, I only needed one hook hand as a result of the accident. Perhaps the Oopsy genes are improving or something.
Nah…
And fast forward from that illustrious moment in Oopsy history to just yesterday, and there I am, pulling up to my house on a black and sun yellow BMW K-1200-R motorcycle. Yep. Not mine, but against all possible common sense, I’m considering it.
For now, well, this one’s been stolen.
And Greg, this amazing guy I’ve been dating, this guy I willed into dating me through an act of pure courage and single-mindedness and determination, well, Greg and I have been playing increasingly complex and convoluted tricks upon each other, and I just stole his bike. And I’m quite pleased with myself.
Somehow, I defy the Fates and the angels’ screaming and make it all the way back to the house in one piece, and I’m pulling up to the house itself, pondering where the kickstand is on this thing when I see my brother waiting at my back door.
My brother. Jeff Oopsy. Jeffrey Oof Oopsy III.
“Hey, sis. Nice bike, damn. There was this lawyer who was helping us at a protest a few weeks ago who drove a bike like this…”
I take off my helmet, still searching for the kickstand. “Yeah, that was Greg.”
“Pacific Islander-looking guy, British accent…”
“Yup, Greg. It’s his. I stole it from him.” I wince just a little bit. “Although it didn’t have this scratch down the side when he had it.”
And I’m standing there, rubbing at the scratch a bit, trying to calculate whether there is still time to get it back to Greg’s place before he realizes it’s even gone. Big damn scratch.
Oopsy…
I toss Jeff the keys to the door. “Go ahead. I’ll be right in.”
But the thing about family curses is that they’re family curses, and they don’t go away while I’m rubbing at a $14,000 bike. And the thing about Attention Deficit Disordered Angels is that they must be appeased. You can’t tell them that the slowdown in the plot is being utilized for character development. They don’t care.
They just don’t care. They want explosions, blood, gnashing of teeth, volcanic eruptions. They want a banana in the tailpipe.
Without the big belly laughs, Life is just an episode of “Two and a Half Men.”
Anyway, as part of our increasingly complex and convoluted trickery upon each other, Greg had buttered the floor to my entryway. Making it, you know, slippery.
Right about this time in the story, Jeff finds this out the hard way.
The angels, they love it. I can hear the winged bastards in hysterics at Jeff’s misfortune: “Again! Again!”
A little later, and I’m helping Jeff try and stop the bleeding. I’m an expert at this, having had more than my share of head wounds over the years. And the one that Jeff has, well, it’s not that serious of a head wound, as far as head wounds go.
Might could use a stitch, but that’s not how an Oopsy rolls.
Me: “So, um, to what do I owe the honor of your injured presence?”
Jeff: “I tried to call, but you weren’t answering your phone. Mom’s in the hospital. Serious damn car accident. Spinal injury, it looks like.”
Me: “What does that have to do with me?”
Jeff: “Well, I just thought…”
Me: “Yeah, well, she didn’t even bother to call the hospital after my accident. Besides, is there a chance HE could be there?”
The conversation continues like this for a while longer, but I can sense the angels getting restless, looking around for the remote, maybe floating over to see whether MTV has any hot new reality shows or whether we’re moving from strength to strength in Iraq.
‘Cos the angels, they’re never satisfied. Say what you will about these angels, it’s nothing but bread and circuses with them.
(to be continued?)
he heee
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