Voices

I prefer to think the vast majority of Joplin Globe op-ed participants are seventh graders struggling to complete a homework assignment. Because the paper’s online edition doesn’t provide photos or biographical background, it’s impossible to determine if they’re old enough to date. Not that age should be a determining requirement for submitting opinions. Carterville’s Wild Kyle Hole fathered twins before his twelfth birthday. His preteen peers -- saddled with lower levels of testosterone -- gaped in awe at Wild’s full beard; eyes were wide watching him shower after gym class. I’ll never forget the morning he jumped out of an opened third story window, nor can I erase Miss Drum’s reaction to such unexpected dare-deviltry. (Before she regained consciousness, Wild had scaled the slick bricks and was back in his seat enjoying Nurse Melvina’s frantic medieval resuscitation techniques).

Although it’s rare when twelve year olds are subpoenaed to testify in divorce court, at least three prepubescent Cartervillians were entangled in unsavory paternity suits; ten year old Bobby “Billy” Sackley was the target of late night pot shots fired by jealous truck drivers. There is strong evidence to suggest lead poisoning played a role. However, Kyle’s thick proliferation of pubic hair and freakishly abnormal sexual development can not be pinned entirely on severe plumbism: three generations of Holes all bore marked similarities to the mythical Yetti. Spending a disproportionate amount of their meager income on shaving cream and straight razors, natives gave the Hole family a wide berth when they rushed The Shamrock Café, tearing a new one in the popular Carp Tuesday buffet.

Colleen Hole, Wild’s youngest sister, could light matches off her chin stubble while being breast fed.
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Unfamiliar with strip-mining’s toxic reach, perhaps a few lucky burgs were spared heavy metal contamination‘s dreadful assault on the orbital frontal cortex. Personal experience dictates that maternal relatives living on farms far removed from Carterville’s consumptive moonscape displayed greater facility with fireworks, as they never pointed Roman candles directly at family members or rolled M-80s beneath the picnic table where skittish great-aunts had gathered to escape Black Cat’s sulfuric machine gun pop. (I’m convinced that my youthful Independence Day indiscretions were never forgiven. While cousins received cash after completing rehab, I cornered the market on travel-sized Brut and military recruitment paraphernalia).

Once again, I’ve lost my train of thought.

Wait, something, something free-market…nope, it’s gone.

Juan Don