ST. LOUIS SUNDAYS

I saw the Moody Blues play here at the old St. Louis Arena, 3 times! However, that has nothing to do with the frightening story I will tell you today!!

Let me take you back to my childhood. (Harp music and fog from a machine) Back, baaack, baaaack, (echo), baaaaaaaaaack, baaaaaaaaaack. (We spare no expense on the special effects.)

There I was in my Buster Browns and my corduroy. Cute as a bug. Innocent. Unsuspecting. Minding my own business.
(Let’s face it, I was precious.) My world was peaceful, secure and satisfying. Until the “day!”

 I remember it ever so clearly.

It was a Sunday morning, and the golden sunbeams were streaming through the lace curtains like gentle laser beams from an alien warship. Everything seemed so normal. 

Dad was reading the Post Dispatch, Mom was in the kitchen, my brothers and sisters were watching Kukla, Fran and Ollie.

How was I to know that this would be the most—no wait, let’s try again. How was I to know that this would be the darkest, most terrifying day of my life! (Psycho music)

(Yeah, that’s good.)

I’ll never forget my Mom’s words. They seemed so sweet and loving. Daaaany, come to the kitchen. I have a surprise for you.

A surprise? Oh, joy! Cake? Candy? A pony? Not exactly.
She had something a bit more unusual, shall we say, in mind.
(More psycho music).

Mama was standing in front of the kitchen sink with her favorite, razor-sharp butcher’s knife in her hand. The mirror-like blade of the knife reflected her face as a distorted, scrunched up image of a surreal, uh, let’s see, Lucille Ball. Yeah! That’s it! Kind of like a psychotic, demented, Lucille Ball.

At the time, I thought nothing of it. Why would I be suspicious of Mom? Wasn’t she the one who woke up at all hours to feed me and change my dirty diapers? Didn’t she clean up my baby puke and bathe me when I rolled in tar?

Sure, sure she did, uh huh, yep, she did all right. So why then, did it happen? Why, why didn’t I recognize the signs.

The hoot owl hooting outside my window and the dead albatross in my sandbox.

So, anyway, Mom said (very slowly), “Come Danny, hold out your hand.” 

Expecting the nicest surprise ever, I did what I was told.

 Mom said, (very slowly and eerily) “Closeyour eyes.” I did so in my youthful innocence. I felt her put something in my hand. A kitty? A puppy? 

In a sweet, singsong way, Mom said, “Open your eyes.” I opened my eyes.

I did not find the wonderful, beautiful surprise my childish heart yearned for so eagerly. Instead, I saw in my tiny virgin palm, an ugly, awful, slime covered, raw chicken’s butt!

(Psycho music again). 


I am told I was found in an alley ten blocks away, muttering something about the Little Red Hen, Donner Pass and proctology. 

Hey, but that was my Mom, a laugh a minute, and that was growing up in the Maness household in the 50's, in St. Louis! 

Have a great Sunday, and watch for flying chicken butts, and Flying Burrito Brothers!!

This story was retrieved from my least selling book.