Hoot ‘n Holler

There is a group of white old redneck women who work in my building. I think they work for a home loan place that hires these types of women exclusively. They cluster. You know the type, gruff chain smoker's voice, wrinkly tattoos, loud boisterous (raspy) laughs, and tight clothes meant for (though rejected by) a younger generation.

Anyway as I was riding down the elevator with three of these ladies today, one was talking about a gentleman closing a deal for her. He was described emphatically as "a hoot." The other cacklers of the coven agreed.

A hoot you say? All I kept thinking the rest of the trip down was "I wish I were a hoot."

Then I began to imagine what this genteel man of high esteem was really like. I imagined a bottle of scotch in one hand. Two glasses for lunch maybe. He tells dirty jokes and wears a shirt that reveals his machismo avalanche of graying chest hair. And when his hand is free from a bottle, it's throttling an old redneck lady's bottom. Yeck. That does sound like a hoot.

But then again who doesn't want to be liked? I still wish somebody would call me a hoot.