I searched the audience until I saw Grandma Earlene. She had taken her seat and that’s when I saw the bonehead, Tyrone. He stood in the corner looking all smug and pleased with himself. Why anyone would want to ruin a talent show is beyond me. Some people have a need to be noticed. Tyrone would be one of those, I suppose.
“Good evening, good folks!” I said in my best Ms. Earlene voice. “Y’all are in for a real treat. The dance team is going to perform, not as themselves, but as the…” I purposely paused extra-long, “the Dancing…Dingleberries!”
The audience laughed hysterically, probably because they were expecting Dewbabies, not Dingleberries. No one seemed disappointed except Tyrone.
The dance team had been milling around, luring the crowd with welcoming gestures, spins, and turns. The act started out in an unorganized way on purpose. In contrast to the chaos, the team suddenly transformed into a long string of interesting characters. Their brightly colored outfits stood out again the jet-black, floor-to-ceiling backdrop.
I whispered into the microphone, “Please watch carefully as the Dingleberries do their thing!”
In less than a minute, the dance team contorted their bodies to form letters. The end result (as well as the end of the talent show) was their message: BE KIND. It was Jenius’s idea to use colorful beach balls for the dot in the “i” and the period. Good punctuation is a thing for us journalists.
When the music faded, I wrapped things up like a professional gift wrapper. Things looked pretty good as I twirled my grandmothers’ golf club and toddled off stage. It was a great night for everyone except Tyrone and his not-so-merry band of troublemakers.
On the way home, Grandma Earlene gave us the full report. For me, this turned out to be the best part of the evening. Hearing that Tyrone went to the trouble of acquiring stinky science liquids that he never got to use was shocking but satisfying at the same time.
He pulled out his jar and reached for his wet hankie when I came on stage. But as he pulled out the baggie from his pocket, my clever grandmother sensed the boy’s rising hostility and took control of the situation. She started coughing and sniffling as if her sinuses had exploded without warning.
“Oh, gracious, my goodness. May I?” she asked then grabbed the hankie from Tyrone, which took Tyrone by surprise. “Am I ever so grateful I sat next to you, young man. Allergies,” she stated without a stitch of emotion.
However, after hearing how it went down, I quickly realized Tyrone was not the type to give up and accept defeat. His hopes of ruining our act and humiliating me had been destroyed. He got busted by an old lady and he knew it. The only fumes filling the auditorium that night were the ones escaping from Tyrone’s ugly temper. The smelly side effect of chemistry eluded us all, and I have to thank the good Lord for that.
What Tyrone meant for bad, turned out to be good, very, very good. What I found remarkable and worth this mention, was the fact that it was Tyrone’s ugly name-calling that gave me the brilliant idea to rename our act.
I forget who said oxygen to the brain is not a myth, it’s a must. I can testify. It was during my short but sweet deep breathing spell that I stumbled upon the name-switching solution. Knowing I’d outsmarted my enemy was exhilarating. There’s nothing like extinguishing an attack with the enemy’s own dart.
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