Late last night, while sugar plums danced in Li’l Pepinitas dreams and Santa was leaving merchandise in parlors throughout the county, the Bob the Gorila Editiorial Board was alerted to the fact that a very important La Monja mishap was left out of Saturday’s La Monja Mishap Montage (commonly, “Triple M”).
As a wee lass, La Monja munched on a hot dog. The wiener somehow bypassed her Chiclets and lodged in her wind pipe. We, her valiant brothers, half-panicked/half busted a gut watching our little sister turn deeper shades of blue by the second while we ate our potato salads. Her eyes bulged like those on the dead fish lying out front on the Lake Erie shoreline. Opa Suave, ever valiant and ready, swept into the gaggle of his offspring, as best a 300 pound man can sweep in, scooped up his little princess, tipped her upside down and held her ankles like a trained pediatrician, and whacked her little back like he was paid to (tip of cap to Aunt Nina). The frankfurter shot out of her little larynx like a missile, made a screaming b-line for the far end of the room, ricochet off the ceiling and rendered one of Granny’s lamps useless. Li’l Monja sucked in air like a surfacing oyster diver (first thing that came to my mind. Actually, the second. The first was reference to the time Casi Italiano fell from a tree while we played Cowboys and Native North Americans Decendant of Asian Emmigrants No Offense and he landed flat on his belly. He forgot his name for half a day, and couldn’t catch his breath; sounded like a stuck donkey. Another story, another day. See why I went with the oyster diver?), and started giggling like she had awoken in the middle of horseplay with her Daddy. Dinner continued as if a fork had dropped.
Back to your Christmas dinner, now.
P. Yuletide Suave