Op-Ed

At Figgy Puddin’s: gold, frankincense and oxygen for black-lung victims

Larry Webster
Larry Webster

Figgy Puddin was thoughtful in designing her annual Christmas party to fit the needs of her customers. She sells clean urine shipped in from Utah by tanker, and throws an annual party.

Locals call it “High on Gobblers Knob,” for her loyal customers. It used to be she just hired a band and they played “Old Time Rock and Roll” over and over, but that was back when people were able to get up and dance.

The hit song this year was something called the “Medicaid Blues,” a song about people unworthy of health care.

As an added touch, Figgie set up a special area for the MPF dance, which is named after massive progressive fibrosis, a disease that hardly existed among coal miners before a pseudo-Republican mountain governor and real Republicans in Frankfort and Washington cured black lung.

Nowadays, a coal miner who doesn’t have MPF is sort of ashamed at a party because people might think he wasn’t at the face.

So Figgy fixed up a little section with pairs of chairs sort of facing each other at an angle, but far enough apart for the oxygen cylinder. If you have MPF and still want to dance you can get some widow to set next to you and when the music really gets going, pat your feet.

One guy wanted to play the spoons, and Figgie went to get him a couple and found all her spoons missing. Most turned up the next day around the place, scorched.

She also had a corner where “Me Too” contracts were being negotiated and signed. These handy contracts protect men, and I guess, women, from somebody hooking up with somebody who later claims it was without consent and causing them to lose $120 million in severance pay.

At the party, if romance blossoms, or lust prevails, both sides check blanks on the form contracts to fully indicate what is allowed, or even expected, and Figgy has a notary right there.

Tie Rod is sort of disgusted by the idea of buying legal moonshine, fearing that soon mountain men will find it easier to buy moonshine than to learn how to make it and pass that knowledge on to the next generation. Another lost survival skill.

But that didn’t keep him from taking a hit off somebody’s commercial stuff when the jar came around. Tie Rod’s goal at the Christmas party was to almost get drunk. He almost achieved that goal, if you know what I mean. Getting drunk to celebrate Christmas is a sort of tradition.

Only a few showed up at the party without a red hat, but Tie Rod said he would rather wear a used Pamper over his head. He lost a fist fight with a Trumper over whether or not there are fewer coal miners now than under Barack Obama and, humiliated, jerked down several hundred feet of Christmas lights, went up on the mountain and in big bold letters spelled out “ F---- Trump”, then ran inside and announced the law was coming and when everybody ran outside, there was that message on the side of the mountain.

Tie Rod had made his getaway from them red-hatted mob, or at least he thought he had. You see, Tie Rod had recently bought himself one of those self-driving trucks. When he ran out to flee and not be torn apart like a Saudi journalist, he realized that his self-driving truck had ran off with a Peterbilt.

Reach Larry Webster, a Pikeville attorney, at websterlawrencer@bellsouth.net.

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