The first time I saw Glinda the Good, she looked yummy enough to eat. But I was was too young—just a babe in arms, really—so she wouldn't let me. Instead, she sent me back to Kansas. Time passed. Auntie Em ran away with the hired hands (all three of them), and Uncle Henry just kind of gave up. Co-dependent or what?
As soon as I turned legal, I hightailed it back to Oz. I cut off those frickin' braids, and ditched the gingham for glittery eyeliner, spandex and blood-red acrylic nails. I got a new pair of shoes and threw the ruby slippers in the back of the closet. I was rockin' that stupid Yellow Brick Road.
Glinda and I have been together ever since. Things have been changing in Munchkinland, though, and I was considering hitting a faraway part of town for a while and getting in some serious shopping until the weather changed.
I cast a discontented glance at Glinda, who was passed out on the couch. She'd grown into a boozy, cantankerous old broad, with bulgy eyes due to her thyroid condition, and was headed for wicked witch-hood at double march unless she changed her tune pretty quick. As I studied her, she roused a little, muttering and trying to scrape her hair out of her eyes without moving her hungover head. Since I met her, she's swallowed an ocean of banana daiquiris, one blender-full at a time. That and magic dust were all she lived on.
Before she could get it together enough to demand another quart or two of booze, there was a knock at the door. I looked out the peephole and saw a group of dark-skinned Munchkins out there, all dressed in black. They looked like a bunch of Gary Coleman commandos. Usually, a visit by one of the Munchkin guilds was something to be avoided like the plague, but with Typhoon Glinda getting ready to blow, they didn't look so bad. I stepped out on the porch and closed the door behind me.
"Hey, girl," said the leader. "We represent the Malcolm X Order."
He paused, and after a minute of awkward silence, I blinked at him. "So, don't you guys have a song or something?"
"Nah, girl, that's old school. We write angry letters and do sit-ins. We hear your . . . friend has been dissing our people. We don't like it. That needs to stop." He looked at me meaningfully.
Just then the door burst open and a groggy Glinda half staggered, half fell out onto the porch. She glared at the Munchkins. "Wahthahell chu guys wan? Imm busy!"
Yeah, she was busy, alright—busy pickling her liver.
"Look, you oppressor honky dike, We ain't gonna take anymore shit off of you. Making the Lolly Pop Guild cater your election party for free, demanding 'ludes from the Lullaby League. Those people get good money for their services. From now on, you wanna dance, you gotta pay."
Glinda glared at him, then turned a suspicious eye on me. She was starting to focus. Uh-Oh. She gets really mean when she focuses. "Why'm I the honky dike? What about her? Why isn't she a honky dike?"
The head Malcolm Munchkin looked me over and smiled lasciviously. "First of all, you're the one who's dangerous; she couldn't fight her way out of a paper bag. Second of all, she's easy. Just remember, leave the Munchkins alone, unless you want to find my boot up your ass bigtime, bitch."
He pointed a finger at Glinda and mimed pulling a trigger. There was some snickering from the Malcolms behind him. Glinda was speechless with fury. All she could do was sputter. Every little droplet of spit morphed into some kind of misshapen bug that slithered away into the azaleas.
It was kinda impressive. I gave her a sultry look. "You want to go inside and . . . do what comes naturally?"
She grimaced. "What I want is a blender full of banana daiquiris. And don't get stingy with the rum."
Do you believe that? I made her banana daiquiris alright. And while I was in there, cranking the blender, I spit in her frickin' rum.