I warned you. I did. But you chose to ignore my warnings in favor of acting the annoying idiot and disturbing my American Idol experience.
Marc, make sure you razz Lar’s ass about what I am about to describe. And be brutal, unrelenting, because lord knows he deserves every single moment.
To begin, I would like to say that when I first became acquainted with Lar, then dated and eventually married him, he seemed the perfect man. He was handsome, athletic, a bit standoffish (which I adore), business-minded, talented, very much the strong, silent type. He did make me laugh, but it was with his wonderfully dark, sarcastic commentary on people and the asinine situations they find themselves in, politics, relatives. Just dripping with sarcasm, and I appreciated that. As the years passed, however, I noticed a subtle change, a slow metamorphosis that crept around the edges, but I ignored it all, chalked it up to stress, exhaustion -- until the year 2004, when the truth of Lar’s monstrous identity hit me with such surprise and force, I felt as if I’d been hit by a cement mixer. I was shocked, still am. Yet I continued to love him, tolerated the squinty eyes, the grotesque way his lips stretch across his deformed face, his tongue lolling out the side of his twisted mouth...And the voice, dear god, the voice. That was especially difficult to overlook, the exaggerated southern twang, the screeching nonsense that echoed throughout the night, kept me awake, induced nightmares...
This is what Lar has become:
Those of you who are familiar with the movie “Deliverance” understand how frightening Banjo Boy is, how chilling his smile, how evil his eyes. Banjo Boy, to me at least, rivals his fellow hill people in the EWWWW! department, not because he’s perverted and likes to make city folk squeal like pigs, as his comrades do, but because of his abnormally hideous manikin-like face. Sure, he plays a mean banjo, but really now, is that even right? Freaks like that should be covered with blankets and hidden in closets, not seen in public pickin’ and grinnin’. Wrong, so very wrong. And I am married, if not to Banjo Boy himself, then to his doppelganger.
Last night was the worst manifestation of Lar’s Banjo Boyism to date. Wouldn’t stop pickin’ and grinnin’, wouldn’t shut up with his Banjo Boy babble, all nonsensical twaddle wrapped up in awful southern accent and jerking facial movements, wouldn’t leave me or my daughter Sarah alone, kept trying to wrestle with us, all the while hooting and hollering and embarrassing himself like never before. Banjo Boy blatantly disregarded my polite requests to be quiet, and in fact became even more annoying, if you can imagine. The angrier I became, the naughtier Banjo Boy, until it culminated to the most disgusting, abhorrent, horrific and unnatural display of perversion ever witnessed by mortal eyes. After he’d driven our daughter from the room, I screamed at him to cease and desist (Taylor was about to perform), Banjo Boy got up on his knees, whipped his shirt off, and...
Hang on...Need a minute to compose myself...
All right. I’m okay. I’m okay...It’s only a memory...Only a memory...
He...He whipped his shirt off and began to...Fondle his own nipples.
It was awful. Never have I hated him more than at that very moment. I yelled, I punched (and hurt my hand), I threatened to tell the world about his behavior, but he persisted, just kept on grinning and hooting and assaulting me with his nipple-fondling until the end of Taylor‘s performance. And then I killed him. I killed Banjo Boy.
And I do not regret it one bit.
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