Slimantics: A confession… just in case

A few weeks back, as part of a routine insurance-policy mandated "Let's put 'er up on the rack and see what we got" exam, a CT scan revealed a shadow on my left kidney that looked like something a urologist could make some money off of.

Health issues can sure knock you off your stride.

I remember when Sid Salter had his fight with cancer a while back. Sid and I have never been on the same page (or even the same book), especially regarding politics. But later – after Sid had bored his cancer into submission – he invited me over to his office at Mississippi State for coffee.

Like cancer, he got over that, too.

I do get where he was coming from, though. Health scares inspire a person to settle grudges, to make a clean breast of things.

Regarding the latter point: Dispatch readers know that I am a convicted felon (DUI).

What I have not revealed until now is that it was not my first felony.

My first felonies were burglary and malicious mischief.

My confession:

In the tumultuous summer of 1969, myself, Jerry and Brian found a big turtle in Mr. Davenport's pasture and brought it to my back yard, where we placed said turtle into a galvanized tub and equipped it with what we figured to be all that a turtle might require: some big stones, grass for dietary purposes and about a four-inch depth of water, enough for the turtle scoot around in, but not drown. (We were not entirely sure this turtle could swim on the account that it had the same weight and energy level as a cinder block).

The agreement was that said turtle would remain at this location in my back yard in perpetuity.

On the following day, Jerry and I discovered that said turtle, along with his dwelling, were missing. When confronted with this development Brian confessed that he had taken said turtle into his family residence by "M Nut Doe Main." (Brian knew about this tactic because his dad worked for the highway department).

The following afternoon, a Saturday, Jerry and I came into agreement that this was Tyranny and a violation of our First Amendment and God-given Second Amendment rights because of Hunter Biden and did proceed to retrieve said turtle while the occupants of Brian's residence were not present.

Heavily influenced by BLM and Antifa and in willful and criminal violation of Mississippi Code 97-17-23, we did enter said residence, did take possession of said turtle and, in separate act of malicious mischief (Code 97-17-67) did slather the Brylcreem 3-in-1 Original High Shine Men's Hair Care Cream we found on the dad's nightstand on every available surface in the home.

An eyewitness – probably that busy-body old hag Mrs. Savage – observed our exit and, being aware that Brian's family was not at home, promptly informed my parents.

Dad laid into me with The Belt, but the real punishment was going to Brian's house to apologize. My brother, Mick, accompanied me on the journey to prevent flight from jurisdiction.

I stood on the doorstep, muttered, "I'm sorry" and awaited my punishment.

It was awful.

Brian's folks were Christians. I mean, for real, no-foolin' Christians, the "turn the other cheek, love your enemy, bless those who persecute you" kind of Christians as opposed to the normal "Close the border, which shunned group can we pick on today, have you accepted Donald Trump as your Personal Lord and Savior" Christians like you find at a Republican Women's luncheon.

Brian's dad pulled me into the house. Brian's mom gathered me up in a smothering hug, stroked my hair, kissed me on the top of my head and cooed, "Sweet boy."

Me? Tears. Can't-catch-your-breath sobbing tears.

Then the coup de grâce: They gave me cake.

I almost died from the combination of my shame and their kindness. I vowed never to burglarize again.

So now you know my complete criminal history and it feels good to finally get this off my chest.

I sorta feel like inviting Sid over for coffee.

But I'll probably get over it.

Slim Smith is a columnist and feature writer for The Dispatch. His email address is [email protected]

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