Branson is the portal to hell.

Today is one of those days when I really want to stick my head in the oven. I have so much work to do that I am feeling overwhelmed, under appreciated and estrogen deficient. Periodically I scream just a little and have said a truly bad word at least four times. Thankfully, my son is out of the house at the moment and so enjoys his day completely shielded from the fact that his mother is a lunatic.

Because I took last week off to visit with my parents, I am behind. Way, way behind. That's all good though because I really was happy to see them, even if they did make me go to Branson as a belated punishment for getting drunk at school on moonshine when I was in the tenth grade.

How sad is it that I can actually say I got drunk on moonshine, people? That's not something you want on your resume.

Branson. What can I say about Branson that hasn't already been said? Here's something...

It sucks. I hate it. It's torture. If you ever see me in Branson again, it will be because the shifty-eyed man behind me has a gun in his pocket secretly pointed at my kidneys. I went to bad shows, ate loads of fried foods that will eventually kill me and spent obscene amounts of money at Starbucks in an attempt to stay awake so that I could attend more bad shows.

Just in case you happen to think I am exaggerating about the misery of the Ozarks, I am going to tell you a secret so shameful and so humiliating that you have to promise never to tell another living soul so long as you shall live or your spine will turn to jelly and your teeth will yellow.

Ready?

I went to a bull frog rodeo.

I have never been more simultaneously freaked out and yet at the same time, completely unable to control my laughter since the time I over-plucked Mr. Man's eyebrows so much so that he looked surprised about everything for weeks after. There they were, small vacationing children whose parents had tricked them into thinking Branson is fun, running around wildly in the dirt chasing bull frogs, whooping and hollering and occasionally, accidentally stomping a tired frog's guts out.

It's a helluva way for a frog to make a living.

I survived the Branson torture, and that is exactly what it was, because I love my parents terrible and truth be told, I'd do it all over again if they asked me. (And I was under the influence of mind altering drugs.) I figure I owe them. After all, being the proud parents of a teenaged daughter who is seen by any number of people in your tiny town throwing up shine on the side of the road near your church while your other equally drunk daughter holds her hair, deserves something.

And they don't make a HallMark for that.





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