Like tailgating behind the middle school and kissing Bo the pig for good luck before the big game, Mayor Lavon Hayes’ pre-game party has become a beloved part of BlueBell’s homecoming ritual. But leave it to Dr. Zoe Hart to go and try to ruin it. What BlueBell tradition will you come after next, Dr. Hart? Planksgiving?!
Through no fault of our handsome, hospitable mayor — whom I hear was only trying to help the hopeless Dr. Hart fit in — this party was an absolute travesty! There was none of Lavon’s famous crab dip! And not a chicken finger, or wing, or even a nugget, in sight! The horror! Also, Lavon’s delightful mix tapes were silenced! Instead, we were forced to endure an auditory assault of something called “psychedelic trance” from a deejay who reeked of flea market incense, and who had one of those holes in his ear so big you could stick a chicken finger through it. That is, if we’d been served chicken fingers. Do you have any idea what Zoe Hart’s idea of party food was?! Tiny, fancy, foamy, lord-knows-whats. If that’s all she ate in the big city, it’s no wonder she’s so small and needs such giant shoes.
Zoe Hart enlisted the help of a party planner friend of hers from New York, some blonde floozy who dressed like ‘70s disco Barbie (like literally wearing a dress so small it should only be worn by large dolls or tiny pageant kids). And between Bordello Barbie and Dr. Hart, who wore one of her endless supply of slinky black boudoir dresses (which, curiously, she finds appropriate to wear for both the office and nights of hedonism), they turned Lavon’s typically casual and festive fête into a purple-hazed peep into the depths of Gomorrah. I heard from Miss Pepper Ann Finkle (who had to be escorted home because everyone in town knows her blood pressure spikes around moral deviants) that the male waiters were actually exotic dancers. Not a typo, exotic dancers! Even the drinks served, some neon purple concoction that Zoe Hart called a “Blue Moon,” looked more appropriate for a Cancun foam party. It’s a good thing my husband Jake didn’t come. (He takes his pre-tailgate ritual very seriously, and refuses to leave his marinating meat home alone.) He would have been hog wild at the blasphemy of it all — no one messes with his hometown’s homecoming and gets away with it.
My theory, dear readers, is that BlueBell’s resident party-pooper may actually be jealous of our charming small town traditions. After seeing the so incredibly misguided, practically X-rated party she and her wretched city “friend” (we all know her so-called friend slept with the veterinarian she let slip through her tiny fingers… obviously even New York friends aren’t as good as BlueBell friends) threw, I can find no other reason that she would act out like that. Poor, poorly dressed Dr. Hart. You know what they say, dress for the job you want. Perhaps a splash of color and a long pant, and Zoe, you’d start being treated more like a medical professional… and a lady.
